


Have Me

by DaydreamNightmare



Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Drunken Shenanigans, F/M, Fluff, Love Confessions, Swearing, a bit out of character i'm aware
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 14:28:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20277391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaydreamNightmare/pseuds/DaydreamNightmare
Summary: Trish Winterman's case is finished, wrapped up in a neat little bow, with oodles of evidence to land both the rapists and the accomplice in jail for a long, long time. Reports are filled, every i dotted, every t crossed. They're the last two people in the station, which is par for the course these days, and they're high on the feeling of a case well solved.They go to Hardy's and get blackout drunk.





	Have Me

**Author's Note:**

> What it says in the tags. I am obsessed and ignoring real life in lieu of fictional character, but what's new, eh? It's four thirty am, and this hasn't been checked for errors as thoroughly as it should have been. Enjoy!

Trish Winterman's case is finished, wrapped up in a neat little bow, with oodles of evidence to land both the rapists and the accomplice in jail for a long, long time. Reports are filled, every i dotted, every t crossed. They're the last two people in the station, which is par for the course these days, and they're high on the feeling of a case well solved.

They go to Hardy's and get blackout drunk. He has bottles and bottles of nice alcohol he's been given at various functions he only went to because some of the higher ups demanded either his presence or his balls on a silver platter, and it's only Miller's pragmatic "well then you'd _really_ have nothing to live for," that has him putting down the knife.

And he's really glad he has, because somehow, _somehow_, Ellie Miller is in his lap, and by the grace of that same God, she is kissing him. Very objectively, it's a bit off, as she often misses his lips and her tongue is overly enthusiastic, and he's not faring much better, practically kissing into her nostrils, but his skin is warm and he imagines his pacemaker getting ready to fire. She's pulling at his tie with sloppy fingers and he's trying and failing to get a grip on at least three of the buttons on her blouse so that he can pull it over her head.

"Bloody fuck," she groans out in frustration and her forehead finds a place on his left shoulder.

"We're pissed," he says and there's laughter in his throat. He lets his head fall onto the couch behind him and laughs until he can't breathe. She's shaking with laughter in his lap, her breath warm on his neck, and he tightens his hold around her waist, pulls her in as much as he can, doesn't ever want to let her go.

"We're too old for this," she almost sounds like she's correcting him as she presses a tiny kiss to his neck. "I had very strong intentions of shagging you and now I'll probably fall asleep on you and snore and drool on your shirt."

He laughs quietly beneath her, runs a hand through her unruly hair.

"You laugh now, but you won't be laughing when I've cut off circulation to your legs with my big fat arse."

"You've a lovely arse," he mutters and punctuates his point by squeezing the aforementioned arse.

"Wanker," she says, so fondly even his cheeks flush. With some difficulty she pulls her head up from his shoulder and frames his face with her palms, looking at him as intently as a drunk person can.

"Listen," she says, and he does, oh so intently. "When we wake up tomorrow – if we wake up tomorrow at this rate – I don't want you to be weird."

"Oh, I'm gonna be weird?"

"Shut up," her fingers press against his lips and he kisses them. She's momentarily taken. "Stop being sweet now. Tomorrow, it won't be weird. We're gonna wake up, and neither of us is going to be running away, and we're going to be adults and we're going to deal with it adultly."

"It's not a boring matter to be dealt with, Ellie," he says, and her name drenched in whiskey coming from his mouth is somehow the single most sacred thing in the entire Universe. "I'm yours, if you'll have me."

She's speechless. If he were a different man, this is where his throat would swell up with regret, and excuses would start making their uncomfortable way out. Oh, he's had a bit too much, he imagines he'd say, followed by awkward laughter and even more awkward shuffling. However, he is who he is, and he is old enough and has gone through enough to know that people need to be made aware that you love them when you love them. And Ellie Miller deserves to know that she's it for him, deserves to know his feelings for her run deeper than the sea nipping at Broadchurch's cliffs, deeper possibly than the bloody Mariana trench as far as he's concerned.

"'F course I'll have you," she says, voice thick and eyes wet. "Knob," she manages before she kisses him, slowly and carefully this time, and he smiles into the kiss.

They're far too drunk for anything more. When the alcohol really kicks in and the world starts to spin, he gently guides her from his lap and onto the floor, pulls a blanket from the sofa and covers them before wrapping himself around her like a very lanky, drunk octopus. He buries his nose in her neck and breathes her in, breathes in time with her until she's snoring and he's floating between awake and asleep and for the first time in a long time, he thinks he's finally done everything absolutely right.


End file.
